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MESMERIC REVELATION.
Whatever doubt may still envelop the rationale of mesmerism,
its startling facts are now almost universally admitted. Of these
latter, those who doubt, are your mere doubters by profession—
an unprofitable and disreputable tribe. There can be no more
absolute waste of time than the attempt to prove, at the present
day, that man, by mere exercise of will, can so impress his fellow,
as to cast him into an abnormal condition, of which the
phenomena resemble very closely those of death, or at least resemble
them more nearly than they do the phenomena of any
other normal condition within our cognizance; that, while in this
state, the person so impressed employs only with effort, and then
feebly, the external organs of sense, yet perceives, with keenly
refined perception, and through channels supposed unknown, matters
beyond the scope of the physical organs; that, moreover,
his intellectual faculties are wonderfully exalted and invigorated;
that his sympathies with the person so impressing him are profound;
and, finally, that his susceptibility to the impression increases
with its frequency, while, in the same proportion, the peculiar
phenomena elicited are more extended and more pronounced.
I say that these—which are the laws of mesmerism in its general
features—it would be supererogation to demonstrate; nor shall
I inflict upon my readers so needless a demonstration to-day. My
purpose at present is a very different one indeed. I am impelled,
even in the teeth of a world of prejudice, to detail without comment
the very remarkable substance of a colloquy, occurring between
a sleep-waker and myself.
I had been long in the habit of mesmerizing the person in
exaltation of the mesmeric perception had supervened. For many
months he had been laboring under confirmed phthisis, the more
distressing effects of which had been relieved by my manipulations;
and on the night of Wednesday, the fifteenth instant, I
was summoned to his bedside.
The invalid was suffering with acute pain in the region of the
heart, and breathed with great difficulty, having all the ordinary
symptoms of asthma. In spasms such as these he had usually
found relief from the application of mustard to the nervous centres,
but to-night this had been attempted in vain.
As I entered his room he greeted me with a cheerful smile, and
although evidently in much bodily pain, appeared to be, mentally,
quite at ease.
“I sent for you to-night,” he said, “not so much to administer
to my bodily ailment, as to satisfy me concerning certain psychal
impressions which, of late, have occasioned me much anxiety
and surprise. I need not tell you how sceptical I have hitherto
been on the topic of the soul's immortality. I cannot deny that
there has always existed, as if in that very soul which I have
been denying, a vague half-sentiment of its own existence. But
this half-sentiment at no time amounted to conviction. With it
my reason had nothing to do. All attempts at logical inquiry resulted,
indeed, in leaving me more sceptical than before. I had
been advised to study Cousin. I studied him in his own works
as well as in those of his European and American echoes. The
`Charles Elwood' of Mr. Brownson, for example, was placed in
my hands. I read it with profound attention. Throughout I
found it logical, but the portions which were not merely logical
were unhappily the initial arguments of the disbelieving hero of
the book. In his summing up it seemed evident to me that the
reasoner had not even succeeded in convincing himself. His end
had plainly forgotten his beginning, like the government of Trinculo.
In short, I was not long in perceiving that if man is to be
intellectually convinced of his own immortality, he will never be
so convinced by the mere abstractions which have been so long
the fashion of the moralists of England, of France, and of Germany.
Abstractions may amuse and exercise, but take no hold
will always in vain call upon us to look upon qualities as
things. The will may assent—the soul—the intellect, never.
“I repeat, then, that I only half felt, and never intellectually
believed. But latterly there has been a certain deepening of the
feeling, until it has come so nearly to resemble the acquiescence
of reason, that I find it difficult to distinguish between the two.
I am enabled, too, plainly to trace this effect to the mesmeric influence.
I cannot better explain my meaning than by the hypothesis
that the mesmeric exaltation enables me to perceive a
train of ratiocination which, in my abnormal existence, convinces,
but which, in full accordance with the mesmeric phenomena,
does not extend, except through its effect, into my normal condition.
In sleep-waking, the reasoning and its conclusion—the cause and
its effect—are present together. In my natural state, the cause
vanishing, the effect only, and perhaps only partially, remains.
“These considerations have led me to think that some good results
might ensue from a series of well-directed questions propounded
to me while mesmerized. You have often observed the
profound self-cognizance evinced by the sleep-waker—the extensive
knowledge he displays upon all points relating to the mesmeric
condition itself; and from this self-cognizance may be deduced
hints for the proper conduct of a catechism.”
I consented of course to make this experiment. A few passes
threw Mr. Vankirk into the mesmeric sleep. His breathing became
immediately more easy, and he seemed to suffer no physical
uneasiness. The following conversation then ensued:—V. in the
dialogue representing the patient, and P. myself.
Are you asleep?
V.
Yes—no; I would rather sleep more soundly.
P.
[After a few more passes.]
Do you sleep now?
V.
Yes.
P.
How do you think your present illness will result?
V.
[After a long hesitation and speaking as if with effort.]
I
must die.
P.
Does the idea of death afflict you?
V.
[Very quickly.]
No—no!
P.
Are you pleased with the prospect?
If I were awake I should like to die, but now it is no matter.
The mesmeric condition is so near death as to content me.
P.
I wish you would explain yourself, Mr. Vankirk.
V.
I am willing to do so, but it requires more effort than I feel
able to make. You do not question me properly.
P.
What then shall I ask?
V.
You must begin at the beginning.
P.
The beginning! but where is the beginning?
V.
You know that the beginning is God. [This was said in a
low, fluctuating tone, and with every sign of the most profound
veneration.]
P.
What then is God?
V.
[Hesitating for many minutes.]
I cannot tell.
P.
Is not God spirit?
V.
While I was awake I knew what you meant by “spirit,”
but now it seems only a word—such for instance as truth, beauty
—a quality, I mean.
P.
Is not God immaterial?
V.
There is no immateriality—it is a mere word. That which
is not matter, is not at all—unless qualities are things.
P.
Is God, then, material?
V.
No. [This reply startled me very much.]
P.
What then is he?
V.
[After a long pause, and mutteringly.]
I see—but it is a
thing difficult to tell. [Another long pause.]
He is not spirit,
for he exists. Nor is he matter, as you understand it. But there
are gradations of matter of which man knows nothing; the grosser
impelling the finer, the finer pervading the grosser. The atmosphere,
for example, impels the electric principle, while the electric
principle permeates the atmosphere. These gradations of
matter increase in rarity or fineness, until we arrive at a matter
unparticled—without particles—indivisible—one; and here the
law of impulsion and permeation is modified. The ultimate, or
unparticled matter, not only permeates all things but impels all
things—and thus is all things within itself. This matter is God.
What men attempt to embody in the word “thought,” is this matter
in motion.
P.
The metaphysicians maintain that all action is reducible
former.
V.
Yes; and I now see the confusion of idea. Motion is the
action of mind—not of thinking. The unparticled matter, or God,
in quiescence, is (as nearly as we can conceive it) what men call
mind. And the power of self-movement (equivalent in effect to
human volition) is, in the unparticled matter, the result of its
unity and omniprevalence; how I know not, and now clearly see
that I shall never know. But the unparticled matter, set in motion
by a law, or quality, existing within itself, is thinking.
P.
Can you give me no more precise idea of what you term
the unparticled matter?
V.
The matters of which man is cognizant, escape the senses
in gradation. We have, for example, a metal, a piece of wood,
a drop of water, the atmosphere, a gas, caloric, electricity, the luminiferous
ether. Now we call all these things matter, and embrace
all matter in one general definition; but in spite of this,
there can be no two ideas more essentially distinct than that
which we attach to a metal, and that which we attach to the luminiferous
ether. When we reach the latter, we feel an almost
irresistible inclination to class it with spirit, or with nihility. The
only consideration which restrains us is our conception of its
atomic constitution; and here, even, we have to seek aid from
our notion of an atom, as something possessing in infinite minuteness,
solidity, palpability, weight. Destroy the idea of the atomic
constitution and we should no longer be able to regard the ether
as an entity, or at least as matter. For want of a better word
we might term it spirit. Take, now, a step beyond the luminiferous
ether—conceive a matter as much more rare than the ether,
as this ether is more rare than the metal, and we arrive at once
(in spite of all the school dogmas) at a unique mass—an unparticled
matter. For although we may admit infinite littleness in the
atoms themselves, the infinitude of littleness in the spaces between
them is an absurdity. There will be a point—there will be a degree
of rarity, at which, if the atoms are sufficiently numerous,
the interspaces must vanish, and the mass absolutely coalesce.
But the consideration of the atomic constitution being now taken
away, the nature of the mass inevitably glides into what we conceive
before. The truth is, it is impossible to conceive spirit, since it
is impossible to imagine what is not. When we flatter ourselves
that we have formed its conception, we have merely deceived our
understanding by the consideration of infinitely rarified matter.
P.
There seems to me an insurmountable objection to the idea
of absolute coalescence;—and that is the very slight resistance
experienced by the heavenly bodies in their revolutions through
space—a resistance now ascertained, it is true, to exist in some
degree, but which is, nevertheless, so slight as to have been quite
overlooked by the sagacity even of Newton. We know that the
resistance of bodies is, chiefly, in proportion to their density.
Absolute coalescence is absolute density. Where there are no
interspaces, there can be no yielding. An ether, absolutely
dense, would put an infinitely more effectual stop to the progress
of a star than would an ether of adamant or of iron.
V.
Your objection is answered with an ease which is nearly in
the ratio of its apparent unanswerability.—As regards the progress
of the star, it can make no difference whether the star passes
through the ether or the ether through it. There is no astronomical
error more unaccountable than that which reconciles the
known retardation of the comets with the idea of their passage
through an ether: for, however rare this ether be supposed, it
would put a stop to all sidereal revolution in a very far briefer
period than has been admitted by those astronomers who have endeavored
to slur over a point which they found it impossible to
comprehend. The retardation actually experienced is, on the
other hand, about that which might be expected from the friction
of the ether in the instantaneous passage through the orb. In
the one case, the retarding force is momentary and complete
within itself—in the other it is endlessly accumulative.
P.
But in all this—in this identification of mere matter with
God—is there nothing of irreverence?[I was forced to repeat
this question before the sleep-waker fully comprehended my meaning.]
V.
Can you say why matter should be less reverenced than
mind? But you forget that the matter of which I speak is, in
all respects, the very “mind” or “spirit” of the schools, so far as
schools at the same time. God, with all the powers attributed to
spirit, is but the perfection of matter.
P.
You assert, then, that the unparticled matter, in motion, is
thought?
V.
In general, this motion is the universal thought of the universal
mind. This thought creates. All created things are
but the thoughts of God.
P.
You say, “in general.”
V.
Yes. The universal mind is God. For new individualities,
matter is necessary.
P.
But you now speak of “mind” and “matter” as do the
metaphysicians.
V.
Yes—to avoid confusion. When I say “mind,” I mean the
unparticled or ultimate matter; by “matter,” I intend all else.
P.
You were saying that “for new individualities matter is
necessary.”
V.
Yes; for mind, existing unincorporate, is merely God.
To create individual, thinking beings, it was necessary to incarnate
portions of the divine mind. Thus man is individualized.
Divested of corporate investiture, he were God. Now, the particular
motion of the incarnated portions of the unparticled matter
is the thought of man; as the motion of the whole is that of
God.
P.
You say that divested of the body man will be God?
V.
[After much hesitation.]
I could not have said this; it is
an absurdity.
P.
[Referring to my notes.]
You did say that “divested of
corporate investiture man were God.”
V.
And this is true. Man thus divested would be God—would
be unindividualized. But he can never be thus divested—at
least never will be—else we must imagine an action of God returning
upon itself—a purposeless and futile action. Man is a
creature. Creatures are thoughts of God. It is the nature of
thought to be irrevocable.
P.
I do not comprehend. You say that man will never put
off the body?
V.
I say that he will never be bodiless.
Explain.
V.
There are two bodies—the rudimental and the complete;
corresponding with the two conditions of the worm and the butterfly.
What we call “death,” is but the painful metamorphosis.
Our present incarnation is progressive, preparatory, temporary.
Our future is perfected, ultimate, immortal. The ultimate life is
the full design.
P.
But of the worm's metamorphosis we are palpably cognizant.
V.
We, certainly—but not the worm. The matter of which
our rudimental body is composed, is within the ken of the organs
of that body; or, more distinctly, our rudimental organs are
adapted to the matter of which is formed the rudimental body;
but not to that of which the ultimate is composed. The ultimate
body thus escapes our rudimental senses, and we perceive only
the shell which falls, in decaying, from the inner form; not that
inner form itself; but this inner form, as well as the shell, is appreciable
by those who have already acquired the ultimate life.
P.
You have often said that the mesmeric state very nearly
resembles death. How is this?
V.
When I say that it resembles death, I mean that it resembles
the ultimate life; for when I am entranced the senses of my
rudimental life are in abeyance, and I perceive external things
directly, without organs, through a medium which I shall employ
in the ultimate, unorganized life.
P.
Unorganized?
V.
Yes; organs are contrivances by which the individual is
brought into sensible relation with particular classes and forms of
matter, to the exclusion of other classes and forms. The organs
of man are adapted to his rudimental condition, and to that only;
his ultimate condition, being unorganized, is of unlimited comprehension
in all points but one—the nature of the volition of God
—that is to say, the motion of the unparticled matter. You will
have a distinct idea of the ultimate body by conceiving it to be
entire brain. This it is not; but a conception of this nature will
bring you near a comprehension of what it is. A luminous body
imparts vibration to the luminiferous ether. The vibrations generate
similar ones within the retina; these again communicate
to the brain; the brain, also, similar ones to the unparticled matter
which permeates it. The motion of this latter is thought, of
which perception is the first undulation. This is the mode by
which the mind of the rudimental life communicates with the external
world; and this external world is, to the rudimental life,
limited, through the idiosyncrasy of its organs. But in the ultimate,
unorganized life, the external world reaches the whole
body, (which is of a substance having affinity to brain, as I
have said,) with no other intervention than that of an infinitely
rarer ether than even the luminiferous; and to this ether—in
unison with it—the whole body vibrates, setting in motion the
unparticled matter which permeates it. It is to the absence of
idiosyncratic organs, therefore, that we must attribute the nearly
unlimited perception of the ultimate life. To rudimental beings,
organs are the cages necessary to confine them until fledged.
P.
You speak of rudimental “beings.” Are there other rudimental
thinking beings than man?
V.
The multitudinous conglomeration of rare matter into
nebulæ, planets, suns, and other bodies which are neither nebulæ,
suns, nor planets, is for the sole purpose of supplying pabulum
for the idiosyncrasy of the organs of an infinity of rudimental
beings. But for the necessity of the rudimental, prior to the ultimate
life, there would have been no bodies such as these. Each
of these is tenanted by a distinct variety of organic, rudimental,
thinking creatures. In all, the organs vary with the features of
the place tenanted. At death, or metamorphosis, these creatures,
enjoying the ultimate life—immortality—and cognizant of all
secrets but the one, act all things and pass everywhere by mere
volition:—indwelling, not the stars, which to us seem the sole
palpabilities, and for the accommodation of which we blindly deem
space created—but that SPACE itself—that infinity of which the
truly substantive vastness swallows up the star-shadows—blotting
them out as non-entities from the perception of the angels.
P.
You say that “but for the necessity of the rudimental life”
there would have been no stars. But why this necessity?
V.
In the inorganic life, as well as in the inorganic matter
generally, there is nothing to impede the action of one simple
which somewhat alarmed me, and induced me to awake him at
once. No sooner had I done this, than, with a bright smile irradiating
all his features, he fell back upon his pillow and expired.
I noticed that in less than a minute afterward his corpse had all
the stern rigidity of stone. His brow was of the coldness of ice.
Thus, ordinarily, should it have appeared, only after long pressure
from Azrael's hand. Had the sleep-waker, indeed, during
the latter portion of his discourse, been addressing me from out
the region of the shadows?
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